


NHL!Jack

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Series: NHL!Series [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bitty plays for the Aeros, Developing Relationship, Discussion of Anxiety, Discussion of Overdose, Jack did not go to college, M/M, NHL!Jack, nhl!Bitty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-20 11:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13717242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: Jack and Bitty finally got together, in the middle of Jack's playoffs and Bitty's decision to move to Houston. Now what?





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Continuation of NHL!Bitty from Jack's POV. Rating may change in later chapters. Not beta'd, so let me know about errors that need to be corrected!  
> Cross-posted to [Tumblr](https://justlookfrightened.tumblr.com/post/170991051240/nhljack).

The first thing Jack was aware of was the pounding.

It wasn’t very near, but not far enough to be outside his condo either.

The next thing he became aware of was that this wasn’t his condo.

The light was all wrong, for one, and there was a crack across the ceiling and the walls were a dingy blue. 

The bed was too lumpy and far too narrow -- and far too occupied. The man wedged in next to Jack was curled on his side, his firm, round backside pressed against Jack’s hip.

Jack very much wanted to investigate that, but a voice was added to the pounding.

“Bitty! Yo, Bits!” 

Bitty. Eric Bittle, the man currently squirming his way to consciousness, his bottom rubbing delightfully against Jack.

More pounding.

“I know you haven’t gone back to Georgia yet!”

Bitty groaned.

“Shitty,” he said.

“What?” Jack said.

More pounding. More yelling.

“I see that monstrosity you call a truck! Don’t make me climb up and come in through the reading room!”

Now Bitty was up and out of bed. He crossed the floor in two steps and threw the window open.

“Shitty!” Bitty yelled. “Some people are sleeping! Give me a minute. I’ll be right down.”

Bitty slammed the window closed and turned back around. Jack had enjoyed the glimpse of Bitty leaning out the window, dressed in nothing but red form-fitting boxer briefs. The view from the front was equally appealing, but it didn’t sound like Jack was going to have the opportunity to do any more than look.

“I’m sorry,” Bitty said. “That’s my friend Shitty. I texted him last night to let him know I was in town. I didn’t expect him to show up at --” Bitty picked up his phone and looked at it "-- 10:30 in the morning.”

10:30. Jack was due at the practice facility at noon, and he hadn’t even been home to change.

“ _Crisse._ I have to get going,” Jack said. 

“Not without breakfast,” Bitty said. “Please?”

“But your friend. Shitty? Really?”

“Really,” Bitty said. “He might be loud and obnoxious, but there’s no one I trust more. I mean, if we’re going to -- If you wanted to --”

Bitty stopped, biting his lip, not quite looking at Jack.

Jack couldn’t leave him uncertain.

“I meant everything I said last night. Of course I want to,” Jack said, pushing the sheet back and swinging his feet to the floor. “Just, maybe the best way to meet your friends isn’t in my underwear?”

Bitty giggled, and that was a sound Jack could definitely get used to.

“If there’s anyone you could meet in your underwear, it’s Shitty,” Bitty said, tugging a T-shirt over his head and pulling on shorts while he said it. “But if you want to shower, you can use the bathroom in there.”

Bitty opened a door, revealing a small bathroom that had a door at the other end, presumably leading to another bedroom. 

“There should be a new toothbrush in the second drawer,” Bitty said. “And the shampoo and stuff is mine, so feel free to use whatever you need. I’ll get Shitty to take me to the Murder Stop ‘n’ Shop to get stuff for breakfast. No food allergies?”

“No,” Jack said. “My nutrition plan --”

“Calls for lots of protein, unrefined carbs and healthy fats,” Bitty said. “I know. That’s why I’m not just making pancakes. We’ll be back in 15 minutes and breakfast will be ready in 45. Does that work for you?”

“Uh, sure,” Jack said.

Bitty might be small, might be a rookie, but he was going to be a force to be reckoned with, Jack thought. 

He was still grinning as he stripped off his own boxer briefs and stepped under the shower spray.

****************************************

Music was coming from the kitchen when Jack descended the stairs 15 minutes later, wearing the trousers from his suit and the shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He’d washed with Bitty’s things, and he could smell the fresh citrus scent that clung to his skin and hair. It smelled almost like Bitty, but not quite.

He came around the corner to see Bitty, facing away from him, stirring something in a pan on the stove. Onion, by the aroma, and probably peppers. Bitty was wearing the same shorts he pulled on upstairs -- blue, and barely long enough to cover his underwear. His feet were in sneakers, apparently without socks, and it looked like his legs went on for days in between.

His hips swung a bit to the music as he pulled a slice of pepper -- yes, Jack was right -- from the pan to test it for doneness and asked, “So what are you going to do after graduation? You and Lardo have plans?”

That’s when Jack noticed the man sitting at the table -- sitting in the same chair Jack sat in last night when Bitty came and sat on his lap and kissed him. The man had clearly noticed him -- he was watching him watch Bitty with something like amusement.

Shitty -- this had to be Shitty, with shaggy hair and a droopy mustache and a Wonder Woman crop top -- answered Bitty’s question instead of giving Jack away. “I’d go to the beach for a while to study, but it’s summer, so my whole family will be in and out. I think maybe we’ll take some time to find a new place, far from Harvard, that can be our apartment, and I’ll hole myself up there. The bar exam’s at the end of July, but once I take it, I can start work full-time.”

He paused and looked at Jack, which drew Bitty’s eyes to him as well.

“Morning, Bitty,” Jack said. “It smells great in here.”

To Shitty, he extended a hand and said, “I’m Jack.”

Shitty stood to shake hands and said, “Shitty Knight, former resident of this decrepit house and soon-to-be lawyer working in the areas of employment law, diversity and discrimination and educational opportunity.”

“That sounds like a lot to focus on,” Jack said. 

Shitty shrugged. “The organization I hired on with works in all those areas. I’m sure I’ll end up working more in one than the others.”

“Shitty was a junior when I was a freshman,” Bitty said. “He was the first real person I ever came out to.”

“Real person?” Jack asked.

“I used to have an internet vlog,” Bitty said. “I told people there, but it didn’t really count because I didn’t know them and I couldn’t see them. It was more like talking to myself.”

Jack poured himself coffee from the pot, refilling Shitty’s mug for good measure, before sitting down and watching Bitty drop four slices of whole-grain bread in the toaster and pour what looked like mostly egg whites into the pan with the vegetables.

“It’s not very fancy,” Bitty said. “But I know you’re on a schedule.”

Shitty looked at Jack and said, “Should I pretend I don’t know who you are and ask what you do and how you know Bitty, or can we dispense with that?”

“Bitty said he trusted you, so let’s just assume you know who I am,” Jack said.

“Coolio,” Shitty said. “Then I can tell you what a sweet goal that was last night before I ask your intentions.”

Jack stiffened, and Shitty laughed and said, “Not really. Bits here is a grown man, as he never fails to remind me, and makes his own decisions. But you should know that he also has a lot of friends who care deeply about him, and would not take it kindly if his hockey idol screwed with him.”

“Shitty!” Bitty looked mortified.

“Relax, Bits, I didn’t mean it like that,” Shitty said. “You two are welcome to screw each other in as many ways as you like, as long as both of you consent and you’re careful to be safe.”

Bitty apparently decided the best way to deal with his friend was to ignore him.

“I apologize for Shitty,” Bitty said. “He means well, but he really should shut up.”

“Come on, Bits, I’ve known you for going on six years, and this is the first person I’ve been introduced to at the breakfast table,” Shitty said. “This is clearly important to you.”

“It’s not like that,” Bitty protested. “Jack came to talk to me after the game last night, and it got late so he stayed. That’s all.”

“Right,” Shitty said. “Did he sleep in the same bed? Because I happen to know there are four bedrooms up there and no one else is here.”

“It’s fine,” Jack told Bitty. “It’s good your friends care about you. I don’t have any intention of toying with your affection. But hockey idol? Really?”

Bitty was practically scarlet.

“Shitty, bless your heart, and butt out,” he said. “Jack, honey, I’m in this for real, too. But I don’t want to hear any more more about that.”

“Ouch,” Shitty said. “Fine. If the ‘bless your hearts’ are coming out, I’ll shut up now.”

**************************************

Jack was on the road by 11:30, meaning there was no way he’d make it to the training rink at noon. Good thing team lunch was first, followed by a 12:30 p.m. meeting. He wouldn’t be hungry anyway, and there was a little more leeway with being late.

The harder thing to figure out was what to do about his clothes. Walking into lunch in yesterday’s suit would be like trying to sneak into his parents’ house at 7:30 a.m. when was 17. He tried it once; it hadn’t gone well.

He did have a gym bag in the car. He could stop somewhere on the road and switch to workout gear. That would still be unusual for him -- he usually wore a higher class of track pants to team meals. But it wouldn’t scream “I haven’t been home” like wearing his suit. 

Maybe he should have been better prepared when he drove to Samwell. He hadn’t even known where Bitty was, for sure. Marty said the boys were at some kind of hockey house at Samwell. How hard could it be to find it?

In the end, not very. He’d stopped at a gas station in the town of Samwell and said he was looking for a house where all the hockey players lived. The cashier gave him a blank look, but another customer who was buying beef jerky and Fiji water interrupted.

“It’s not a hockey house,” he said. “It’s the hockey Haus.”

Somehow it sounded different when he said it.

“Go about a half mile up this street, make a right then a left on Jason Street,” the man continued. “You’ll see it on your left. And hey, tell ‘em Johnson said ‘Fuck the lax bros.’”

Jack followed the directions (except the part about saying “Fuck the lax bros”); he knew the house by the crossed hockey sticks mounted above the porch.

He’d thought he prepared himself. He’d gone over the pros and cons of outing himself to Bitty a hundred times, and Marty agreed that it wouldn’t be too big a risk. Someone who chose to go to Samwell was unlikely to be homophobic, at the very least. And there was something in the way Bitty looked at him … and the way Marty and Pops both seemed to want to encourage this. Jack had been pretty sure he had a chance with Bitty.

But he’d been so focused on that that it never occurred to him to think about what would happen next. Was he just going to tell Bitty he had feelings for him and turn around and drive away?

And what if the morning had gone differently? Jack had been too tired last night for anything more than some lazy, long kisses after they went to bed, but what if Shitty hadn’t been banging on the front door when he woke up? Jack certainly hadn’t come prepared for any kind of sexual encounter. Would Bitty have condoms at least?

Next time, Jack told himself, he’d be better prepared.

He pulled into a BP and bought a Gatorade and protein bar before asking where the bathroom was. When he emerged in form-fitting shorts and Under Armor T-shirt, he made his way to the car quickly, not looking up to see if people were watching.

It wasn’t as easy to avoid attention when he got to the Falcs’ facility. He walked into the dining area, grabbing some chicken fajitas before sitting down so he would have something in front of him.

“Zimmboni, you change before lunch?” Tater said. “Why? We change before workout.”

“Maybe he didn’t have anything else to put on,” Thirdy said. 

“Jack always did keep workout clothes in his car,” Marty said. 

“Why would he need to change into clothes from his car?” Tater said.

“Jack’s wearing his emergency clothes?” Snowy asked. “I always thought he just had those in case there was a pressing need to exercise.”

“Maybe he had another pressing need,” Marty said. 

Jack sat stoic through it all, taking a bit of his fajita and chewing it thoroughly.

Finally, he said, “I think we all have the same need,” he said. “We need to win this next game and get home ice back. You all ready?”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack's playoffs continues, but he manages to see Bitty anyway.

Focusing on hockey was something that had always come easily to Jack. Maybe too easily, according to people Jack dated in the past. None of those relationships lasted long, mostly because Jack’s partners got tired of competing with -- and losing to -- hockey.

Now Jack was trying to start something not just in the middle of the season, but in the middle of playoffs. It probably would have been better to wait until after the season, all things considered. He knew that. He had Bitty’s phone number. He could have waited until after the Falconers won the Cup and then called Bitty, tried to see if they could meet up over the summer. Or called to commiserate if the Falconers lost.

But when Bitty showed up at the Dunk with three other guys, Jack knew wanted to talk to him. More than that, he wanted to impress him. 

When the Falcs lost, digging themselves a hole, he wanted to blame himself for being distracted by Bitty’s presence. He wanted to blame Bitty for coming and distracting him.

But Bitty hadn’t come to distract Jack; he’d come to watch hockey with his friends, maybe scope out the competition, maybe even come to see Jack. And Jack hadn’t even been able to pull himself together and be polite after the game.

This really, really wasn’t something Jack should try to start during the playoffs.

But the next day, he’d been focusing not on hockey, but on whether he ruined any chance he had with Bitty.

Marty called him on it after practice.

“Where’s your head at?” Marty asked. “You weren’t all here today. You need to deal with whatever’s eating at you before the game tomorrow.”

Jack didn’t want to be pathetic, didn’t want to ask, “Do you think he likes me?”, so instead he said, “I will.”

It apparently didn’t matter whether he said it or not, because Marty answered, “I think that Bittle kid likes you. He’s just a rookie -- try not to be rude, yeah?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “He asked you to get him tickets last night, not me.”

Marty shook his head.

“He didn’t ask me, Pops did.” Marty said. “And he said I get a pie out of it. Apparently Bittle bakes. Maybe he was too intimidated to ask you. But I know it’s not me he’s making eyes at.”

Jack wanted to tell Marty Bitty wasn’t making eyes at him, if only to have Marty argue and tell him that yes, Bitty was.

Instead he just gave a non-commital grunt and said, “I don’t know if he’s making eyes at anyone. But I was rude. I’ll call to apologize.”

“Before the game tomorrow?” Marty said.

“Yes, Dad,” Jack said. “I swear you’re worse than my actual parents.”

When Jack called and found out that Bitty was on his own for the night, Jack hatched the plan to visit in person, telling only Marty what he intended to do. When he got in his car, Marty flashed him a thumbs up.

Jack had ridden all the way to Samwell on a wave of adrenaline. In truth, it worked out far better than Jack had expected -- even if Marty thought things had gone a lot further than they had.

But now Jack was back with the team, and he wouldn’t have a break for almost a week. Bitty was spending the day with Shitty and someone called Lardo (Shitty’s girlfriend? Did that make sense?) and leaving to drive back south tomorrow. Early tomorrow morning, Jack would fly to Washington D.C. with the team to get settled in before Game 3. By the time the series was over, Bitty would be back in Georgia, and Jack wouldn’t be able to hop in his car and see him.

But Bitty said he didn’t have to be back in Georgia on any particular day.

Maybe … if Bitty could convince Shitty to come with … Bitty’s route would take him right past Washington.

Jack wasn’t sure whether he would obsess more over not being able to see Bitty, or having plans to see Bitty after Game 3. But he knew which would make him happier.

After he got off the ice, he texted Bitty.

_What do you think about stopping in Washington long enough for Game 3?_

There was no immediate response, so Jack continued.

_You could bring Shitty and Lardo (?). If you want. But then they’d have to get back north._

Still no answer.

_I just thought it would be more fun for you to watch with friends._

Then Jack put his phone face down while he reheated a chicken and brown rice casserole that the meal service left for him. He made sure to chew each bite 20 times, and he swallowed water after every fifth bite. Finally, 15 minutes later, he was done and he picked up his phone.

 _I could stop,_ Bitty texted. _And I guess I wouldn’t be so obvious if I was with Shitty and Lardo._

*****************************************

_I’ll tell Shitty to behave himself_

That was the last text Jack got from Bitty before he tucked his phone in his locker and skated out for warm-ups.

Bitty and Shitty and Lardo (a small, Asian woman with an edgy haircut, from the photo Bitty sent) were somewhere in Capital One arena. With the late notice, Jack wasn’t quite sure where they were seated. Not with friends and family, because it was too soon -- way too soon -- to be that obvious. Somewhere in the lower bowl, probably halfway back or so. 

Bitty, he knew, wouldn’t wear Falconers gear. If he wore any team logo, it would be an Aeros shirt. But Jack supposed he would be more likely to do what he had for Game 1: wear something plain, but close to Falconer colors. He didn’t know if Shitty and Lardo were the type to rep their team. He didn’t even know if the Falconers were their team; they lived in Boston, after all.

Jack’s eyes swept the crowd a few times while he waited to shoot, but they didn’t find Bitty and his friends.

Marty skated up next to him.

“Did your boy make it?” he asked.

“Not my boy,” Jack said. “But he texted that they were here. I’m just not sure where. I don’t know where the tickets were.”

“Not your boy _yet._ And all things being equal, it would probably be better if the cameras didn’t find him, eh?”

Marty tapped Jack’s shin pads and skated away.

This should have been a bad idea, Jack knew. It should have distracted him, made him uneasy. What if they did put Bitty on the scoreboard and people started asking questions? Could Bitty say he was meeting up with old friends and taking advantage of NHL connections to get them into playoff games?

Actually, Jack thought, that might work. Bitty had an air of innocence that would predispose people to believe him.

Then the game started and Jack was not distracted. His focus shifted to the ice: to his teammates, and the Caps defensemen, and whether Holtby was quick enough to cover the five-hole. The puck was moving fast and straight off his stick, coming back to him crisply, flying inches off the ice toward the net, thwacking off Holtby’s left pad and bouncing directly to Poots, who tucked it in for the first goal.

That was the only tally in the period. Poots got pulled aside to do the intermission interview; Jack passed him in the corridor with a clap to his shoulder pad, a silent “better you than me” flashing through his mind.

He thought of Bitty only briefly, as he took a seat and a long pull on his water bottle and just a moment to disengage from the game. Bitty was somewhere in the crowd watching. Thinking about how he would do it against the Capitals? How he could use that speed to get around Orlov, maybe take off when Niskanen was trapped too deep in the offensive zone? Or was he imagining himself on the Caps’ side of the ice, working out how to beat the Falconers next season? Watching tape was great -- was necessary -- but Jack had always believed nothing gave him a better feel for a team than watching them play in person. Really, there was no reason any player whose season had ended shouldn’t be here watching.

With that thought, Jack let himself re-enter the game mentally. It was a tactic he’d learned years ago, after the disaster at what should have been his draft, after working his way back and getting drafted the next year. He’d been open with the Falcs management about his history, and they had made ongoing therapy a condition of his employment. He hadn’t been in a position or of any mind to argue, and coping strategies like taking a brief mental break during intermission had become almost second-nature.

But until now, they’d focused on happy memories -- playing in the backyard pool when he was a child, visiting Paris the first time with Maman -- instead of what was going on now in his life outside of hockey, or what might be going on in his future.

The Caps and the Falconers traded goals in the second, and when Jack reached his locker stall, his mind took him to the end of the game. Not the winning or losing part, the meeting up with Bitty part. He’d take the bus back to the hotel with the team, then meet Bitty and his friends at a falafel shop north of Dupont Circle. Bitty had found it and sent him the address; it wasn’t too close to the arena or team hotel, and not the kind of place that people would expect an NHL player to show up after a game, but with food that would meet his nutrition plan.

“Even better, I can afford to treat you there!” Bitty said in their brief phone call before Jack came to the stadium.

Jack had just laughed. If Bitty wanted to take him out, well, he’d be ok with that.

He didn’t let himself think any further. It was time to get back into the game.

The third period was another beast entirely. The Caps came out with everything they had to win on home ice. It didn’t seem like Ovi was ever off the ice, and Oshie was usually out there with him.

Jack buckled down and pushed and pushed to try to keep the puck out of the Falcs zone. The Caps pushed and pushed back, and 17 minutes in, it worked. Ovechkin flicked a wrist shot over Snowy’s right shoulder and the game was tied.

Jack did not want overtime. Not tonight. Not just because of Bitty (he had to stop thinking about him now). But OT meant sudden death, and Jack did not want to go there. 

Mats had kept rolling the Falconers lines while they were up, but with the score tied, Jack found himself jumping over the boards 40 seconds after he’d come off. 

Then he found the puck, interrupting a Caps stretch pass aimed at taking advantage of the Falconers change, and took off. Poots was already at the blue line, and Jack had seen Mashkov steaming up behind him, so he dished to Poots and took off toward the dot to Holtby’s left. If Mashkov could outskate his man -- and he was hard to beat once he had his momentum going -- they’d have a 3-on-1. 

Poots skated straight up the middle, dropping the puck back to his left when Orlov committed to pressuring him. Mashkov pulled back like he was going to take a booming slapshot, but instead sent the puck right to Jack’s tape, and Jack tapped it into the wide-open right side of the net with 13 seconds left.

******************************************

Jack paid the cabbie in cash and opened the door of the falafel shop, breathing in the aroma and finding Bitty at a table with Shitty and Lardo, the girl from the picture Bitty sent. There was already a platter with falafel, shwarma and several toppings in front of them.

“I hope you don’t mind we started without you,” Bitty said, before taking a large bite of a sandwich piled with tomatoes, cucumber and tahini sauce.

He paused to dab at a bit of sauce on the side of his mouth before he continued. 

“Watching a game is hungry work. But not as much as playing. Want some?”

Then he stretched his mouth around the sandwich for another bite.

Lardo pushed the used paper plate in front of her away and said, “And that’s our cue to leave. Jack, I’m Lardo, it’s nice to meet you and I’m sure we’ll be seeing you again. Bits, let us know when you’re ready for breakfast.”

“Brahs,” Shitty said, making a small bow. “Enjoy your evening. Don’t do I anything I wouldn’t do.”

“You know, Shits, the list of things that you would do that I wouldn’t is roughly the length of this table,” Bitty said. 

“Fine, then let yourself go and do the things I would do,” Shitty winked and followed Lardo, who was already at the door.

Bitty shook his head, then turned to Jack. His cheeks were pink, and whatever bravado had inspired him to eat his sandwich like that -- it had to be on purpose, right? -- seemed to have left him.

“Hi,” Bitty said.

“Hi,” Jack responded, taking the seat across from him.

“You don’t have to eat here,” Bitty said. “I made a list of places that are open late. I just thought maybe you wouldn’t want anywhere trendy or … well, you know what I mean.”

What he meant was a place where they would be recognized, or, more realistically, where Jack would be recognized. Recognized and photographed and then it would take no time at all for a hockey fan somewhere to identify Bittle.

Which would lead to scrutiny that wouldn’t be good for either of them right now. And that really sucked, because they had to think about who could see them in a crappy falafel shop in DC before they’d ever even gone on a proper date.

And shit, he’d been quiet too long because Bitty was pulling out his phone and looking for his list.

“No, this is fine,” Jack said, pulling the clean paper plate towards him. He took a pita, a falafel ball, several shwarma slices and piled on the vegetables. “Looks good, and I’m hungry.”

“You don’t need me to tell you you had a great game,” Bitty said. “But you did. It was a good game all around for you guys.”

“Poots was something special, wasn’t he?” Jack said. “A goal and an assist.”

“Same as you,” Bitty said. “And you set both of them up.”

Jack shrugged. That was his job.

“It’s one game,” Jack said. “There’s another one the day after tomorrow.”

And he took a bite of his sandwich, which was … really good.

He opened wide for a bigger bite.

“You don’t have to give me the press sound bites,” Bitty said.

“No, I mean it,” Jack said. “That’s the only way to get through the playoffs. I know it sounds like a cliche, but it really is one game at a time.”

“And here I was hoping to help you celebrate,” Bitty said.

“How about we celebrate the fact that we got time to see each other?” Jack said. “We can’t really go back to my hotel, but --”

“We can go to mine,” Bitty said. “I’m not trying to be forward, but I don’t think you want to hit the club scene, if there is one in this town. I have to warn you, though. Your place is probably nicer than mine.”

Jack shrugged. “It’s not like I can spend the night anyway. We don’t have a formal curfew, but sneaking back in the early morning wouldn’t be good.”

“So you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?”

“Maybe a little later?’ Jack said. “I’ve probably got two hours or so.”

“Does anyone know where you are?” Bitty said. “I mean, if I was a Caps fan, I could kidnap you so the Falconers would be at a disadvantage.”

“Marty knows,” Jack said. “I told everyone else I was meeting a friend for dinner. But yeah, Marty’d definitely be on to you.”

He paused. Atlanta hadn’t had a hockey team for a good five years. “You’re not a Caps fan, are you?” he asked.

“Nope,” Bitty said.

And he’d gone to school in Massachusetts. “Or a Bruins fan?”

“Lord, no,” Bitty said. “At home, I tried to keep up with the Jets once they left Atlanta, but we really didn’t get much hockey news down there. At school, most of the team actually followed the Falconers.”

Jack nodded. “That’s good.”

It was good, but it also meant Bitty had seen the advertisements with his face on them, his interviews where he came off more robotic than alive, all the ways the Falconers’ PR staff had tried to humanize him. 

They were quiet during the cab ride to what turned out to be a comfortable but non-descript Hampton Inn. Bitty used his keycard to let them in and walked directly to the elevator, letting Jack follow behind. They didn’t encounter anyone on their way to Bitty’s room, which was mostly occupied by a very white king-sized bed.

“I’m still pulling for the Falconers, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Bitty said, dropping his jacket on a chair and moving to stand in front of Jack. “Now we’ve got a time limit here, so do you mind if I kiss you?”

Jack didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all.


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Bitty get to know each other better ... yes, in that way too. But the playoffs continue, and Bitty goes back to Georgia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a short NSFW bit towards the beginning; if you want to skip it, stop after the second graf (ending "feeling their time was limited"). Skip the next three grafs, picking up at "When it was over ...") and know both of them enjoyed themselves immensely, and that Jack was a little surprised at how comfortable it was.  
> Not beta'd, so let me know if there's something I need to fix.

When it came time to leave Bitty’s hotel room, Jack tried very hard not to think about the fact that the next time he talked to Bitty, he’d likely be three states away. The distance would only grow when the Falconers returned to Providence.

He tried to focus on the last two hours instead. It wasn’t magical, precisely, but it was awfully good — and far less awkward than Jack had feared. They hadn’t done so much, really. In some ways, it reminded him of the first fumbling encounters with Kent, fast and sloppy blow jobs and hand jobs in nondescript hotel rooms on the road, knowing the door was locked against their teammates, but always feeling their time was limited.

With Bitty, though, it was so much better. Not only because Bitty had a small bottle of lube tucked into his bag, which made the feeling of Bitty’s hand stroking him exquisite. Then when Bitty pushed him down and settled between his knees without Jack even having to ask -- no, Bitty had done the asking, looking up at Jack from under his lashes, saying “Can I?” -- that was nearly enough to make Jack come as soon as Bitty’s mouth touched him.

Then he lasted what should have been an embarrassingly short time, but Bitty seemed to take it in stride, just spreading some lube on Jack’s hand, joining it with his, and placing both of them on his own still-hard erection.

“Like this,” Bitty whispered into Jack’s neck, showing Jack how to pull at him. In the end, he didn't last much longer than Jack.

When it was over and they’d cleaned up, Bitty pulled the covers over them and curled into Jack’s side.

“Sleep or talk?” Bitty asked.

It was all Jack could do to stay awake, but he murmured, “Don't want to waste our time together.”

“But you're tired, sweet pea,” Bitty said. “Tell you what, ask me questions and I'll just ramble along."

Jack tried to protest because Bitty had a long day of driving ahead of him, but Bitty just started talking about the mini pies he’d made when Jack turned up in Samwell. So Jack asked him how he learned to cook, and Bitty told Jack about spending days in his MooMaw’s kitchen while his Mama and coach were at work.

“Your coach?” Jack asked.

“Coach is my dad, not my coach,” Bitty said. “He's the high school football coach in town. Everyone calls him Coach.”

Jack wanted to pursue that, but it might be too much at this time of night. 

“What was the music you were listening to when you were making breakfast?” 

That was either a very good or very bad question, judging by the way Bitty dropped his jaw and gasped audibly.

“You didn't recognize Beyonce? Vintage Beyonce even? Wait, who do you listen to?”

Jack shrugged. He knew what was coming. 

“Euh, Coldplay, Wilco, maybe some Neil Young or Tom Petty.”

“Oh my God, Jack,” Bitty said. “Anyone from this century?”

“Adele can sing,” Jack said.

Bitty allowed that Adele could, in fact, sing, but then started throwing names at him. Some were the same names that Jack heard in association with music from the younger guys in the locker room, but for all that he could say they were musicians, he had no idea which singer went with which song.

“Oh, my Lord, Jack, are you sure you don’t have actual children somewhere? Because you and Coach could bond over, I don’t know, the Traveling Wilburys or something,” Bitty said. Jack knew he was being chirped about his dad music, but the affection in it was plain on Bitty’s face and in his voice, so Jack just said, “I like them,” and started singing, “She’s My Baby.”

Bitty laughed, more with him than at him, and said, “Be prepared. I will be sending you playlists.”

“Are those like mixtapes?” Jack asked, trying to keep the proper sense of bewilderment in his voice but nearly laughing instead.

“Hush, you,” Bitty said. “I know you know what a playlist is.”

When they’d settled again, this time with Bitty’s head on Jack’s shoulder and Jack stroking the short, soft hair behind his ear, Bitty asked, “Don’t be mad at me asking, but you do know how to use Skype, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “I Skype with my parents once or twice a week.”

“If we exchange contact information, maybe we could Skype when you have time?” Bitty said. “I know how busy you are now, and if things go the way we hope, it’ll be that way for a little while yet, but maybe we could find a time that works for you? On your off days?”

Jack bent his neck to kiss the top of Bitty’s head. “Every day,” he said. “Or at least, I’ll try. Once next season starts, it might be hard, depending on our schedules.”

Bitty had nodded, a movement Jack felt rather than saw, and said, “We’ll try our best.”

Then Bitty had yawned, and they lay there together in comfortable silence until the alarm on Bitty’s phone told them it was time for Jack to go. 

********************************

If it wasn’t for the time Jack spent talking to Bitty, he’d gladly have forgotten the next two days.

On Friday, the day Bitty left, Jack slept late and woke up to a text from Bitty -- it was a selfie of him and Shitty and Lardo in the breakfast room at their hotel, all holding up those make-your-own waffles that were a fixture of hotel breakfast.

The text included a links to an Instagram and a Twitter account, where Bitty had shared the picture with the caption _Spending time with some of my favorite people! #FreeBreakfast #bonus_

Jack followed both accounts and noted that neither post included a location tag. Bitty might have been anywhere.

A few minutes later, there was another text, this one just to Jack.

_Packed up and headed out. Gonna drop Shitty and Lardo at the train station so they can go back to Boston and head for Georgia. Skype at 10 tonight? That should give me plenty of time._

Jack texted back, _Sure thing, I already miss you_.

The reply came before he even put the phone down.

_Me too sweetpea._

What followed was a usual road off-day: high-protein breakfast, light workout, team meetings, lunch, watching tape, rest, team dinner, more tape. Marty sought him out at lunch but couldn’t pry too much because the other guys were there. He just asked how Jack’s dinner with his friend had gone.

“Friends, actually,” Jack said. “But it was good to get away from hockey for a bit.”

He wasn’t sure whether Tater noticed Marty’s raised eyebrows; he joined the conversation by saying, “I didn’t know Zimmboni had friends in Washington.”

“They were just here for a visit,” Jack said. “They left this morning.”

“Lucky you could hook up then,” Tater said, and Marty choked and blamed the water for going down the wrong pipe.

Every couple of hours, Jack would get a text from Bitty, sometimes with a photograph of an old gas station or just a quip about how he knew he was getting further south by the way the humidity was making his hair frizz. 

There was a picture about 1 p.m. of a bowl of barbecue and a biscuit, and at around 7:30, there was a picture of a two-story house with a deep shaded porch and an attached garage. The grass was a brilliant green, and the soil that showed at the edges of the driveway and front walk was more russet than black. A red flag with a big black G in the center hung from a pole attached to the porch.

 _Home sweet home,_ the caption read. 

Then, _Mama’s gonna want to feed me and hear all about my trip. Still on to Skype at 10?_

 _I’ll be waiting,_ Jack texted back.

He wondered if Bitty telling his mother all about his trip included telling her about Jack. Jack decided it probably didn’t. They hadn’t yet discussed how private they would keep their relationship; so far, only Shitty and Lardo really knew. And Marty, probably.

It would be fine with Jack if Bitty wanted to tell his parents. But it was something they should talk about.

Jack decided he wouldn’t talk about Bitty to his parents when he called them. Telling them would be perfectly safe -- he was sure of that -- but it should be something he and Bitty decided together.

Still, it made for an awkward Skype call home. Jack felt like he sounded kind of pathetic: What had he been doing outside of hockey? Nothing really. Just hanging out with the team, watching tape, sometimes taking a break to watch the History Channel (every hotel had the History Channel) or read a book, because Mama and Papa insisted that being a hockey player did not mean he should neglect his mind. If not for Bitty, that’s exactly what he would have done, but now (after two dates? Encounters?) he felt like he was leaving the best parts out. Even if he really couldn’t have talked about all the best parts. But the mini pies and the omelets and the falafel and Bitty chirping him over his musical taste -- he could have told them all of that.

Maybe that was why, when Bitty connected their Skype call and popped up in his screen, he jumped in way too quickly. He did take a moment to appreciate that Bitty was clearly in his childhood bedroom, with cream colored walls, a shelf behind him with lots of medals, and a poster of a beautiful woman (Jack assumed she was Beyonce from the way Bitty talked about her) and a poster of Patrick Chan. 

Bitty himself was smiling a little too brightly, like he was tired and didn’t want to show it. 

“Hey there,” Bitty said. “Good rest day?”

“Good enough,” Jack said. “The usual. I just talked to my parents.”

“What a coincidence,” Bitty said. “I just talked to mine.”

“I wanted to know if it was ok if told my parents about us,” Jack said. “I didn’t tonight, because we hadn’t discussed it, but I wanted to. It’s fine with me if you told your parents, or if you want to.”

Bitty sat up the way he did when something surprised him (and Jack loved that he already knew that) and said, “Jack, my parents don’t know.”

“About what?” Jack said.

“About me,” Bitty said. “They don’t know I’m gay.”

“But you said you’d known since you were a kid,” Jack said. “And Shitty knew, and Lardo, so I guess your college team did?”

“Yes, all of that, but just because I knew doesn’t mean I told anyone here,” Bitty said. “Jack. This is a small town in Georgia. What’s more, I’m the football coach’s kid. I can’t be gay here. It wouldn’t be good for me. Heck, it could cost Coach his job, unless he publicly disowned me or something.”

“That makes no sense,” Jack said. “How could your sexual orientation have anything to do with your dad’s job?”

“It doesn’t, but there are people who would think that they made me gay or something, or that my being gay is a punishment visited upon my parents,” Bitty said. “My dad serves at the pleasure of the school board. They don’t need a real reason to let him go. I mean, he’s the winningest coach they ever had, so I don’t think they would, but that wouldn’t matter if the team turned on him.”

“But can’t you at least tell your parents?” said Jack, recalling some of the fond memories Bitty had shared with him after the game in Washington. “Even if you don’t tell anyone else. Keeping secrets like that -- it can’t be good for you.”

Bitty shrugged and didn’t look exactly at the camera.

“I’m not sure how they would take it,” he said. “I mean, if they don’t already know, they suspect, but they never bring it up, and neither do I. Anyway, I told them at dinner that I’m leaving for Houston next week. It’s not like I’m really out there, but even as a member of the Aeros, people are paying less attention to what I do than they do here. And I’m pretty sure Ricks and Pops know, or at least think I’m gay, and they don’t care.

“So then Mama and Coach all but accused me of being too big for my britches, wanting to move away. Until I said I wanted to train with the strength coach to make it more likely I’ll make the team out of camp next year. Once it was about sports, Coach was all for it.”

Jack stopped and thought about the Aeros he knew -- Pops, of course, and Gus and Monty -- and said, “The ones I know are good guys. I wouldn’t expect any of them to give you a problem. If you wanted to be out-out, like publicly, I’m not sure how the marketing people would take it.”

“What about you?” Bitty asked Jack. “Marty knows. Anyone else?”

“My parents,” said Jack. “And I was in a relationship with someone else who ended up in the league, but it was a long time ago. I’m pretty sure other guys know, or at least think I’m not straight. But I’ve been around a while. I guess I’m not saying I’m ready to be out either, but if it happened, I’d be ok. Your position is a little tougher.”

“I know,” Bitty said.

“We’ll be as careful as you need to be,” Jack said, and felt a lump rise in his throat at what he was about to say next. “But are you sure you want to do this? I want to, but I’ll understand if you don’t. No one has to know anything happened between us.”

“Hush, you,” Bitty said, giving a small but genuine smile. “Of course I do. I don’t invite just anyone out for late-night falafel. I’m sorry I’m so serious.”

Jack smiled in relief and changed the subject.

“Why do you have a poster of Patrick Chan on your wall?”

“You don’t know Beyonce and you know Patrick Chan?” Bitty asked.

“I am from Canada,” Jack said. “I was at Sochi.”

“Of course you were,” Bitty said. “Wait -- do you actually know him?”

Jack shrugged.

“We’ve met,” he said. 

*****************************************

The next day was more of the same for Jack: fuel his body, rest, bond with his team, until the game started.

This game was a disaster. The Falconers weren’t shut out, but it was a near thing. Thirdy scored a meaningless goal five minutes before the end of the game, but at 4-1 it already felt out of reach.

When it was over, Jack tapped Snowy’s helmet and said, “That wasn’t on you, man.”

It wasn’t. Maybe one of the goals was a little soft, but other times Snowy stood on his head to bail out his team. Anyway, all wins were team wins and all losses were team losses.

Since it was a matinee, the team cleaned up and boarded the bus to head directly to the airport and go home, preparing for a game Tuesday night.

Most of the veterans -- the guys Jack’s age or older -- were looking forward to their own beds, and many of them couldn’t wait to see their wives and kids. Some were looking to reconnect with their girlfriends.

Mats told them they had tonight off; after that, they’d be sequestered in a hotel until the next game, because no one needed to be getting up to handle 2 a.m. feedings or soothe restless toddlers or “indulging in other late-night activities,” Mats said, the night before the most important game of the season so far.

Jack was pretty sure he was the only one flying further from the person he wanted to see, and pretty sure he was the only one who was wishing he could spend time with his boyfriend. Was Bitty his boyfriend yet? Jack wanted him to be.

Marty sat next to him on the plane.

Using the cover of the engine noise, he leaned closer to Jack.

“How’re things with Bitty?”

“Good,” Jack said, because despite an awkward conversation the night before, they were good. He really liked Bitty, was pretty sure that he could love Bitty given half a chance. “He’s really good. We’re going to try to make something work.”

“I’m happy for you,” Marty said. “How long have you been here? Seven years? This is the first time I’ve seen your head turned. Pops says he’s a good kid.”

“About that,” Jack said. “Is it going to be ok, Pops knowing about this? I mean, I trust you, and Pops has always seemed like a good guy. But Bitty’s new in the league, and they might not want someone that seems like he’s rocking the boat.”

“Nah, you don’t have to worry about Pops,” Marty said. “He wants Bitty to be happy, and he wants Bitty to be happy there. What about his friend Ricks?”

“Bitty thinks he’s fine,” Jack said. “But he hasn’t told either of them defininitively.”

Marty shrugged.

“Maybe keep it that way for a little while? Not that I think there’s a problem, but the more people know …” 

“I know,” Jack said. “But thanks. For telling me to go for it.”

“Whatever you need, kiddo,” Marty said.

“Oh -- I hope you don’t mind,” Jack said. “I gave Bitty your phone number. He said he wants to know your favorite kind of pie. But don’t expect it until we’re done playing.”

Marty laughed.

“Tell him peach,” Marty said. “And he can call me anytime.”


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falconers move on in the playoffs, which means they're going to meet the Aces. Bitty says goodbye to Madison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters where Jack and Bitty don't actually see each other ... well, it must be worse for them.  
> Two, maybe three chapters yet to go.  
> Not beta'd; tell me if I need to fix something!

Over the next days, Jack did what he usually did during the playoffs: slept, ate and exercised; met with the team, watched tape and practiced. There were more media obligations than during the regular season, and more in-depth study and strategizing since they were playing the same team game after game. It became a chess match, almost, to adjust to what the other team was doing, then adjust to their adjustments.

The difference now was that his phone would vibrate every two or three hours with a text from Bitty, and every night before he went to bed he made time to Skype with Bitty. On off days, they sat and talked for an hour or more, listening to music together, sharing stories about their teammates and their pasts.

Jack learned how Bitty started as a figure skater -- which explained the Patrick Chan poster -- but stopped his first year of high school because his family moved. He took up hockey as a way to stay on the ice. No one expected him to play much at all that first year, Bitty said, especially because he was scared of body checking. But the coach wanted Bitty’s speed on the ice, and worked with him day after day, first letting Bitty check him over and over, and then, when Bitty was comfortable throwing a check, checking Bitty until he could skate through.

It didn’t take long after that for Bitty to be able to check and take checks from his teammates, and by then, Bitty was a regular on his team.

“I think what surprised everybody -- maybe me most of all -- was how much I liked checking people,” Bitty said. “Especially since I didn’t have the best background with physicality. But once I realized I could knock a guy nearly twice my size on his ass, well, it was fun.”

After the Falconers won Game 5 in a 2-1 gem from Snowy, Bitty talked to him for 20 minutes, reliving the game -- and everything good Jack had done -- in loving detail, before cutting himself off.

“Sweetpea, you must be exhausted,” Bitty said. “You should sleep.”

Two days later, the Falconers were back in D.C. for Game 6. Bitty texted Jack before the game:

_Good luck -- not that you need it._

After the game, Jack thought that they’d needed every bit of luck they got to walk away with a 4-3 overtime win and take the series 4-2. His mood was more relief than elation. As much as he hated overtime, he hated Game 7 more. The only thing worse was losing.

After the game there was the handshake line and the award presentation, with Jack and Marty and Thirdy being careful not to touch the Prince of Wales trophy. Jack didn’t care what Sid had done -- Jack hadn’t touched the conference trophy the last time the Falcs won the cup, and he wasn’t about to jinx it. 

The team flight was after the game, set to arrive in Providence between 2 and 3 a.m.

“I’m sorry, Bitty,” Jack said after he ducked around a corner in the airport. “For just a phone call. But you really should get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow, and the next day. We have a few days before we start the final.”

“’S okay,” Bitty said, already sleepy. “I understand. Call me tomorrow when you have some time, ok? I’ll be around.”

“I wish you were in Providence to celebrate with me,” Jack said. Then he wondered if that sounded petulant. It wasn’t Bitty’s fault that he lived in Georgia. 

“I mean, I just wish we could be together,” he amended.

“Me too, darlin’,” Bitty said. “I wish I could see you in person, make you a conference championship pie, maybe celebrate a little bit the way we did in Washington.”

Jack smiled, even though he knew Bitty couldn’t see it.

“What kind of pie would you make?” he asked.

“Jack Zimmermann, I leave you an opening like that, and that’s what you come back with?” Bitty sounded like he wanted to be offended, but he was laughing too hard. 

“Sorry,” Jack said. “I think we’re getting on the plane in a few minutes. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

“Fine, sugar,” Bitty said. He paused for a moment, like he just thought of something, and said, “Would you like that, a sugar pie? Or are you more a fruit pie kind of guy? Not a cream or meringue pie, I don’t think.”

Jack actually thought about his answer.

“I don’t think I’ve had tarte au sucre since I was a kid,” he said. “But it’s a winter food. I like apple pie, even though I’m not American. Other fruit is good too. What’s in season now?”

“Down here? Peaches, strawberry rhubarb,” Bitty said.

“Oh, Marty said he likes peach pie,” Jack said. “For the one you promised him.”

“I’ll get that done just as soon as you finish your season,” Bitty said. “But don’t you worry. You’ll get your pie too.”

Jack heard the team moving toward the tarmac, and started that direction. When he didn’t answer immediately, Bitty giggled. “I meant a real pie,” he said. “Nothing sexual.”

“No, I wasn’t thinking that,” Jack said. “ I mean, the team’s getting on the plane. Sorry, I was distracted. Either way would be fine with me.”

*********************************************

“My parents suspect,” Bitty said when Jack connected their Skype call the next afternoon.

“Suspect what?” Jack said. “That you’re gay? I thought you said they already suspected that.”

“No, about us,” Bitty said. “Or, not _us_ exactly, just that I’m seeing someone. My mama keeps making remarks about how attached I am to my phone, and I know she’s noticed I close the door when I’m in here talking to you. This morning she finally asked if I had met a ‘special someone.’”

Bitty made a disgusted face, like he was 5 and didn’t want to see the kissing scenes in movies. Jack wondered what Bitty would think if he had to watch his own mother’s kissing scenes -- although Jack had been considerably older than 5 when he was allowed to see his mother kissing actors on the screen. Which probably made it worse.

“‘Special someone,’ eh?” is what Jack said. “At least they’re not asking if you found a girlfriend. Maybe she’s trying to tell you it’s okay?”

Bitty put his forehead in his hands on Jack’s screen.

“I know,” he said. “Maybe she’s trying to be supportive. Or maybe the thought that my special someone can grow a playoff beard hasn’t crossed her mind, and if I say, ‘Why, yes, Mama, I have, and his name is Jack,’ she’ll faint dead away and Coach will come running in and think I’ve killed her. And maybe I will have.”

Bitty looked up.

“I can’t take this. I’m moving to Houston.”

“You were already moving to Houston,” Jack pointed out, taking a swig of the smoothie he had made before sitting down to talk to Bitty.

“Oh my God, what is that?” Bitty said, now looking really aghast -- the expression was entirely distinct from the over-dramatic “I know I’m making more of this than I should” look he had when talking about his parents.

“Smoothie,” Jack said. “It’s got kale, and avocado. And protein powder. And mango.”

“It might be almost okay without the protein powder,” Bitty said. “When I was in Texas, I once had an avocado margarita -- it did sound weird, but it was pretty good. Very creamy.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about you moving to Texas,” Jack said.

“Okay,” Bitty said. “You remember that’s where my actual job is, right? Or at least the job I hope to have come October. And, bonus, I can talk to you without locking myself in my childhood bedroom. I’m told this leaving-the-nest thing is common among 20-something humans. Ricks is moving to Houston, too, so we’re going to try to be neighbors.”

“I know,” Jack said. “It’s not moving out of your parents’ house -- I haven’t lived full-time with my parents since I was 16. But Texas is the wrong direction.”

“Jack, honey, you know as well as I do I don’t get to choose where I play,” Bitty said. “And with my paltry NHL starting salary, and your NHL salary that’s at least an order of magnitude bigger, I think we have the means to travel when we have time.”

Jack nodded. “I didn’t mean to question your decision,” he said. “I know it’s the right thing for you to do. Houston just sounds so much further away than Georgia.”

If nothing else, Jack thought, Bitty would get the strength coaching he needed and be separated from his mother and grandmother’s cooking. From the way Bitty talked about them, he had an idea that they just loved to feed their “growing boy,” and if they baked half as much as Bitty, it wouldn’t be good for him.

“I don’t know,” Bitty said. “Georgia -- at least where my parents live -- it’s a whole nother world.”

He paused.

“You’re still going to come see me after you’re done?” Bitty said.

“Of course,” Jack said. “And in Texas, you’ll be closer for the away games in the final. Do you think you could come to one of them? I know you’ll have just got there, but maybe you could fly out for a night? Or two?”

“I don’t see why not,” Bitty said. “I’m kind of at loose ends. I’ll make arrangements as soon as the series is set.”

“I don’t know how much time I’ll have,” Jack said. “Realistically, they’ll have us all on pretty short leashes. Especially if it’s Vegas.”

“Like all y’all couldn’t find a way to get in trouble in LA?” Bitty asked.

“Well, I’m sure most of my teammates could,” Jack said. “To be honest, I’ve generally preferred a book or a documentary in my room.”

“Now what would you prefer?” Bitty asked, grinning.

This time, alone in his apartment, Jack was going to take the line Bitty threw him.

“You. In my room,” Jack said. “In my bed.”

“Yeah,” Bitty said, and the look on his face was utterly incongruous with the earbuds he wore so his parents couldn’t overhear, and his old textbooks on the shelf behind him. “Want to tell me about it?”

*****************************

 

It was Vegas, and it took the Aces seven games, so the Falconers had a full five days off before they opened the series in Providence.

Over those five days, Jack listened to Bitty agonize over which things he wanted to take to Houston from his parents’ house -- he seemed to give baking equipment high priority -- and over the virtues of apartment buildings he had so far only seen on his laptop screen.

Bitty had made arrangements to stay in the furnished apartment he’d occupied during the season for at least two weeks while he rented a place and got the essentials -- a bed, a couch, a full set of bakeware.

The day of the actual move was the day of the first game against the Aces. Bitty was leaving Madison at 6 a.m. with Coach, who would split the driving so they could make it straight through without stopping for the night.

“I told him I could do 13 hours by myself easy,” Bitty said, “But he insisted on coming. I think he’s afraid the old crate will break down, but he’s no more a mechanic than I am.”

Jack privately agreed with Coach. He’d seen Bitty’s truck outside the Haus in Samwell; it looked like it was held together with spit and baling wire.

“He’ll be company at least,” Jack said. “And you won’t have to stop as long to rest. How long is he going to stay?”

“Just the one night. He’s flying back to Atlanta in the morning, and Mama will pick him up. I guess I’m just frustrated because I won’t be as free to talk that night, however your game goes. My dad’ll be sleeping in the spare room. Heck, he’ll probably watch the end of the game with me.”

“It’s fine,” Jack said. “Even if you just text me a good night.”

“We can do a little better than that, sweetpea,” Bitty said. “Just call me when you can. I can talk to you from my room.”

Of course, meeting the Aces also meant meeting Parse.

They weren’t precisely friends these days, but they were friendly, at least, which was a huge improvement over the way things had been in the years just following his overdose. Kent was the only other queer player he was sure about, although he assumed there were more. He could probably make an educated guess as to whom a few of them were, even with his limited exposure to the rumor mill.

He wanted to tell Bitty about Kent, if only to give Bitty a more complete understanding of his past. But there was no way to say, “My boyfriend found me unconscious and then took my place and went first in the draft that year” without outing Kent. He really had to talk to Kent before he could say any of that to Bitty.

The phone call to Kent was awkward, as (non-Bitty) phone calls tended to be. But it was a success. Kent agreed to meet him on the off-day at a out-of-the-way coffee shop.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Jack had said. “Not hockey.”

“Don’t lie, Zimms,” Kent said. “Everything for you is about hockey. At least a little bit.”

“Not primarily about hockey,” Jack said. 

“You know, as T-Swift famously said, ‘We are never, ever, ever getting back together,’ right?” Kent was laughing a little, so Jack knew he was kidding. In any case, his news would definitely end any hopes that Kent might have had -- if Kent had any. But the way their relationship had changed over the years, Jack was almost certain that Kent had outgrown Jack as much as Jack had outgrown Kent.

So instead of responding directly, Jack said, “T who?”

“Jack, I know you know this one,” Kent said. “She started out as a country singer.”


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Kent play, and talk. And Bitty looks for a place to live.

It didn’t matter how friendly Jack and Kent were off the ice; on the ice, Kent was a force to be reckoned with. 

He’d always given up a few inches in height and more than a few pounds in weight to Jack, but he made up for any deficit in size with extra agility and first-step quickness. He’d been a dream to share a line with, if Jack didn’t count the insane competition between the two of them, and he was a nightmare to face across the dot.

“Good to see you, Zimms,” Kent said, before the puck dropped. “Let’s go.”

Then the rubber hit the ice and Kent was trying to get it from between Jack’s skates, but it skittered back and Poots grabbed it. He didn’t keep it for more than a fraction of a second as Parse swept around Jack and picked it off Poots’ stick.

Jack took off after Parse and managed to push him towards the boards, and, once they passed the goal line, off the puck. But that was the way the whole game went: nothing was easy, for either side.

The Aces broke through first, and then the Falcs tied it up. Kent scored near the end of the second, and the Aces took the lead into the second intermission.

Jack took his mental break imagining Bitty in a new apartment. How would he decorate it? What would the kitchen be like?

Jack knew Bitty wasn’t really moving into a new apartment tonight. Tonight he would go to a furnished temporary place while he looked for a new home. From what he’d told Jack, he was looking at one- and two-bedroom places, mostly in high-rises, but he wasn’t happy with the kitchens he’d seen on the virtual tours.

Jack imagined himself sitting in Bitty’s kitchen, wherever he ended up, watching Bitty turn flour and sugar and butter into something delicious. 

Bitty had promised him a pie after the season; maybe Jack could watch him make it.

Then it was time for the third period. The level of aggression ratcheted up, with neither team getting a solid advantage, until Jack managed to steal the puck and get one past the Aces goalie to tie it.

A minute and a half later, Kent returned the favor, coming in hard on Snowy and crashing into him.

The Falcs weren’t happy, and the only thing that stopped a full-on brawl was Tater reaching into the pile and pulling Kent out by the collar of his jersey. Tater was yelling at him in Russian, and Kent looked a little scared, but the display was enough to settle everyone else down. When the refs finished their video review they ruled it a good goal -- the puck had crossed the goal line before Kent interfered with Snowy.

Despite Jack’s best efforts to tie it again, the game ended with the score 3-2 in favor of the Aces.

Jack dragged himself home and texted Bitty. _Skype or phone?_

 _I can skype from my phone,_ Bitty replied. _My laptop’s in the other room._

A minute later, the call connected.

“I’m so sorry about the game,” Bitty said, sitting on a bed with white sheets and a blue duvet pushed up against an off-white wall.

Jack shrugged. “It could have gone either way,” he said. “But yeah, it kind of sucked.”

“What was Parson’s deal?” Bitty asked. “Is Snowy okay?”

“He’s fine,” Jack said, consciously not answering about Parse. “How was your trip? You guys make it in okay?”

“No trouble at all,” Bitty said. “Coach is snoring in the other room.”

“Miss you,” Jack said.

“Miss you too,” Bitty said.

****************************

Jack stepped into The Shop at 8:45 a.m. and took up a a position at a table with a clear view of the door. This was one of his favorite places in Providence; he might not know anything about interior design or decor, but there was something about this place. Every time he came here, he felt like he was releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He rarely sampled the baked goods, but the coffee was good, and they had chamomile tea for when he didn’t want caffeine.

At 8:49 -- close enough to not be considered late -- Kent walked through the door.

He took the chair opposite Jack and nodded.

“Nice place,” he said. “Quaint.”

“Coffee’s good,” Jack said. “Can I get you a cup?”

“Sure,” Kent said. “Your choice.”

So Jack went to the counter to order two mugs of Guatemalan, black. Then he wondered if Kent didn’t like it black anymore -- did he ever like it black? Or did he just drink it that way because Jack did? -- so he asked for a small pitcher of cream and some sugar to take back to the table.

“What, you’re going to do coffee art now?” Kent said when Jack put everything down.

“I didn’t know what you wanted,” Jack said. 

“Black’s fine,” Kent said, lifting his mug and taking a sip. “That is good.”

Jack took a sip, too, and savored the smooth bitterness on his tongue.

“So you asked me to meet you,” Kent said when the silence had stretched long enough. Maybe too long. “What’s going on?”

Jack still hadn’t figured out how to say it, so he just blurted it out.

“I’m dating someone,” he said.

Kent sat back in his chair.

“You know we broke up a while ago, right?” Kent finally said. “You really don’t have to tell me that.”

“I’m dating another man,” Jack said.

“Props to you for courage, but you probably don’t want to tell all your exes that,” Kent said.

“I don’t really have any other exes,” Jack said.

“Wow,” Kent said. “Really?”

“Really,” Jack said. “I’ve had some dates, but not a girlfriend or a boyfriend.”

“And you’re telling me this why?”

“I want to tell him about us.”

“You want to share your tragic backstory?” Kent asked.

Jack shrugged. “I expect he knows about the OD, at least that it happened. I’d like to tell him the real story.”

“So why can’t you tell him and leave me out of it?”

“Because you were part of it,” Jack said. “I can’t say I freaked out over the draft so much that I mixed benzos and booze and I would have died if my boyfriend hadn’t found me --”

“Why not?”

“-- and then he went first in the draft and got everything I ever wanted, everything I thought should be mine, and I got a month in rehab and a year playing in Europe.”

“You make it sound like I took something from you,” Kent said. “Fuck you. I lost my best friend and my boyfriend and got sent to Vegas -- where I pretty much wasn’t allowed anywhere besides the rink and my apartment -- all by myself when I was 18. Don’t act like I made you a victim.”

“No,” Jack said. “I’m not saying you did. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I couldn’t take your calls. But I couldn’t handle it then. I guess maybe I want this guy to know where I’ve been and what happened and yes, that I can be -- have been -- a real asshole. But there’s no way to tell the story without him knowing who you are.”

“He knows hockey?” Kent said.

Jack nodded.

“Tell me about him,” Kent said. “Who is this guy?”

“He has his own reasons for not being out,” Jack said. “So I can’t tell you who he is without talking to him first. But he’s younger -- graduated from college last year -- he likes to bake, and he likes Beyonce maybe more than he likes me. He’s … bright, I guess. Luminous. Warm. Always taking care of people.”

Kent was watching while Jack talked.

“You got it bad, don’t you?” he said when Jack paused.

Jack shook his head a little at his own folly but said, “Yeah, I guess I do.”

“How long have you been together?” Kent asked.

“About two weeks. But I’ve known him a few months.”

It was Kent’s turn to shake his head. “A hundred and ten percent or nothing, huh? But you trust him? He won’t out you -- he likes you, I presume -- but you trust him not to say anything about me?”

“I do,” Jack said. “And if he says it’s okay, I’ll introduce you. I know I can trust you too.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Kent said, putting his mug back down and pushing his chair back. “See you tomorrow night. We’ll beat your sorry asses again.”

“In your dreams,” Jack said.

*************************************

Jack didn’t tell Bitty about Kent when they talked that night. Bitty was full of news about the apartments he had seen, sending Jack links to the websites for various places and video clips he had taken as he toured them.

Most of the places were within a mile or two of the arena and practice facility, which also put them in close proximity to restaurants and bars and coffeehouses. The real estate agent kept showing Bitty high-rise units that were all glass and sharp corners, Bitty said.

“I swear it took me half the day to convince her that I cared more about the kitchen than the size of the master bedroom. Although some of them did have really nice bathrooms.”

After looking at pictures of a half-dozen apartments, Jack knew which one he thought Bitty would choose. It was in an older building, but it had been recently renovated. The unit wasn’t as high up as some of the others, didn’t have the spectacular views or the floor-to-ceiling windows to frame them. But the wood floors had a warm tone, there was a big fireplace, and the kitchen was about twice the size of the others Jack saw.

Sure enough, Bitty said, “That’s the one I’m leaning toward. It has just as much room, but it doesn’t cost as much as some of the others. And the building has a pool and a decent gym.”

“Nice kitchen, too,” Jack said.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Bitty said. “I might as well be a 1950s housewife, having my head turned by the amount of space in the fridge. I just wish I knew what Ricks wanted to do -- we said we’d try to be neighbors.”

“Are there other units available in the building?”

“Yes, a handful,” Bitty said. “Most of them are higher up, too, so better views. But this was the only one with this kitchen.”

“And some of these other buildings are nearby, too, right?”

“Yeah, they’re all in the same neighborhood,” Bitty said.

“Then he can still be your neighbor, even if he gets in a few days after you and chooses something different,” Jack said. “Just send him the pictures and let him know what you’re thinking. But you want to be comfortable where you live.”

“That’s probably fine,” Bitty said. “I guess I’m just a little nervous. I’ve never paid money like this for a place to live before.”

“I know,” Jack said. “I saw where you lived in school, remember? But you can do this now. And if it’s not perfect, you can move when your lease is up.”

“You’re right,” Bitty said. “I’ll sign the lease in the morning.”

Then Bitty grinned.

“I feel better already,” he said. 

“You’re still coming to Game 3 in Vegas?” Jack said.

“Sure am,” Bitty said. “I wish I could bring my mama with me. She’d be a hoot in Vegas. But it would be a little hard to explain to her.”

“I know,” Jack said. “If you don’t want to tell her, you could invite Ricks.”

“Maybe,” Bitty said. “I mean, because you’ll be under lock and key most of the time, and it would look like we were doing some rookie bonding. I’m pretty sure I could manage to slip away when you’re free.”

“I can’t wait to see you,” Jack said. “Is it weird that I wish I could have looked at apartments with you? I mean, we’ve only been dating for like two weeks.”

“Is that what we’re doing?’ Bitty asked, his cheeks pink. “Dating?”

“That’s what I want to be doing,” Jack said. “I want to be your boyfriend, if you want that.”

“That’s just what I want,” Bitty said. “You charmer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Shop is a real place. See more about it [here.](http://www.theshopfoxpoint.com/)


	6. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shitty comes to Game 2; Jack tells Bitty about his parents and tells his parents about Bitty,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who looked this over and pointed me in the right direction!

_I have to warn you about something,_ Bitty texted Jack the afternoon before Game 2. _Shitty and Lardo are going to be at your game tonight_

Jack got the text before he settled in for his pre-game nap. 

_Ok?_ He texted back. _Why the warning?_

 _I can’t vouch for their behavior -- Shitty’s behavior, really -- if I’m not there to stop any nonsense,_ Bitty wrote. _He said they got tickets because he wanted to make sure your assets were fully appreciated in my absence. But he wouldn’t tell me what he he had planned._

Jack thought for a minute, and texted, _you know there’s rules about fans actually interfering with players. I’m sure it will be fine._

A second later, Bitty replied, _Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not malicious. He really does like you. And Lord, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything because you don’t need to be distracted, and all he’ll do is cheer extra loud._

 _No worries,_ Jack wrote. _Enthusiastic fans are usually a good thing._

The conversation was not enough to stop Jack from sleeping soundly before the game and arriving in the locker room rested and ready. He had his Skype call with Bitty to look forward to after the game -- the hour time difference worked for them right now -- and he felt like nothing could stop his team.

The rest of the Falconers seemed to be just as determined as they took the ice for warm ups.

It wasn’t until it was almost time to return to the locker room that Jack saw a few of his teammates looking into the stands and laughing. Jack was turning from his position near center ice to see what they were looking at when Kent bumped his shoulder and pointed.

“Don’t tell me that’s the guy,” he said.

Jack followed his gaze and saw the poster, red letters and glitter hearts on a white background, proclaiming, “Yo, marry me, Jack Zimmermann.”

It was held above the head of Shitty Knight, who was grinning like a loon. Jack laughed out loud, and, when Shitty noticed Jack looking, shook his head no, but he was still smiling.

“Definitely not the guy,” Jack said to Parse. “He’s not at all my type.”

“Yeah, you never did like the scruffy look, did you?” Parse said. 

Jack laughed again, knowing anyone listening in would likely take the “not my type” comment to mean “because he’s not a woman.” But he thought about Kent’s parting shot. Bitty, unshaven because his team was in the playoffs, his beard and hair growing longer and more unkempt as the games went along? That was appealing. It definitely was the person and not the level of grooming that made the difference.

Just like in the Capitals series, the Falconers rebounded after an opening loss and took the second game. It wasn’t exactly easy -- 3-1 instead of 5-0 -- but once the Falconers had the lead, they never gave it up. After the game, the locker room was as happy and relaxed as it got during the playoffs.

Jack checked his phone and found a series of texts from Bitty.

_Omg, i am SO sorry_

_Lardo texted me a picture of Shitty with the sign_

There was a long line of blushing faces.

_She said you looked right at him and shook your head no, but you were laughing. I hope that means you forgive me and my ridiculous friends_

That was followed by a picture with praying hands.

Jack texted back immediately.

_Nothing to forgive. If anything, he helped me look like a good sport. I’ll call you when I get home._

Then:

_Of course I said no. I’m taken._

************************************

As soon as Jack walked in the door, he shed his jacket and dropped his keys in the bowl on the counter. He poured a glass of water and pulled a pre-portioned meal from the freezer. He put it in the microwave and opened his laptop.

Bitty was already online and waiting for him. Just as Jack was about to call, the phone in his pocket buzzed. He pulled it out -- Papa. Probably wanted to talk about the game. But if Jack didn’t answer or return his call soon, he would worry.

Which was a bit much, Jack thought, because his team just won a playoff game, and most people would assume he would be happy. But Papa knew he fell apart when everyone else thought he was on top of the world.

Bitty was waiting, though, and Jack had promised he’d call as soon as he got home.

He sent a quick text to his dad: _I’m busy just now. I’ll call you as soon as I can._

The reply was almost instant. _Are you all right? Do you need help?_

_No, Papa. I’m fine. I’ll explain later._

Then he clicked on Bitty’s name and was greeted with, “Hey, sweet pea! Great game!” and a wide smile.

“Hey, Bits,” Jack said. “Thanks. It was fun tonight.”

“Looked like it,” Bitty said. “I really am sorry about Shitty. You’d better believe I gave him an earful once I got him to answer the phone.”

“Seriously, it was fine,” Jack said. “PR keeps telling me they want me to look more human. He just gave me an opportunity.”

“If you say so.”

“Really. Tell you what -- do you think they’d want to come to Game 5? I can get them tickets.”

“Oh, now you’re trying to make me jealous,” Bitty said. 

“Never,” Jack said. “It’s like doing something for you, through your friends.”

“Well, if you put it that way,” Bitty said.

“I have kind of a serious question for you,” Jack said. “I mentioned it before, but we got sidetracked. Is it okay with you if I tell my parents? My dad called just before I called you, and I have to call him back when we’re done.”

“Oh,” Bitty said. “I guess I thought we settled that. Yes, of course, you can tell your mom and dad. That’s pretty safe. It won’t get back to my folks, or to anyone else in the NHL, right?”

“Right,” Jack said. “But you do know who my father is, right? He still has a lot of contacts in the hockey world. I’m not saying you have to worry -- he’s known I’m not straight since before I came into the league -- just in the interest of full disclosure.”

“Wait -- who’s your father again?”

“Robert Zimmermann. Bad Bob Zimmermann?”

“He played hockey back in the ’90s, right? I remember the guys in the Haus talking about him.” 

“You could say that,” Jack said. “Seventies, ’80s, ’90s. He won four cups, and his name is all over the record books. You can look it up.”

Bitty looked it up on his phone right then. Jack took the opportunity to watch the expression on his face change as he read. Jack saw when Bitty’s jaw dropped and he looked up.

“Your mother is Alicia Montgomery?”

“That’s her stage name, but yes.”

“Oh my god, Jack. Have you seen --”

Jack laughed. “Yes, I’ve seen all her movies. Before I left for the Q, my parents sat me down in the living room and had a mom movie marathon, just so I would know what was in them if people used her career to trash talk me.”

He felt himself turning red just at the memory. “And yes, it was as awkward and embarrassing as you’re imagining.”

“But she never --”

“Nothing too explicit, but imagine being 16 and watching your mother kiss some other actor while she and your father are sharing the couch with you.”

“Lord, yes, I can see that. Every so often my mother mentions someone she dated before my dad and it just sounds wrong,” Bitty said.

“So did you get the apartment?”

“I did indeed. I move in next week,” Bitty said. “When you come visit, I’ll be in the new place. Probably won’t have it quite the way I want it yet.”

“When do you start working out with the strength coach?”

“You mean when _did_ I start?” Bitty said. “I started today. I should be in the best shape of my life by training camp. I now know he was taking it easy on me during the season. But I’m planning to take a couple of days off when you’re here.”

“Will you be able to take some time off later too?”

“Probably,” Bitty said. “But I don’t think it would be a good idea for us to spend time together in Providence. You’re too well known there.”

“Not Providence,” Jack said. “My folks have a house on a lake in Nova Scotia. We could maybe spend a week there?”

“Sounds great,” Bitty said. “But you have a series to win first.”

“Absolutely,” Jack said. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Of course.”

“You seriously never Googled me?”

***********************************

It was 45 minutes later that Jack called his father.

“Allo, Jack?”

“Yes, Papa,” Jack said. “Who else calls you at midnight?”

“Just you and your mother,” his father said. “You played well tonight. Against Kent, too.”

“Papa,” Jack said.

“I know, I know that was a long time ago,” his father said. “But I also know that games against the Aces have been difficult.”

“Papa, really, it’s fine,” Jack said. “Didn’t you have to play against friends sometimes?”

“By the end, nearly every game,” Bob said. “But Kent isn’t exactly a friend, no?”

“I think maybe he is a friend now,” Jack said. “We had coffee yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“So I could tell him I’m dating someone.”

Jack knew the smile on his face was smug when his father didn’t respond for at least 10 seconds.

When Bob did speak, he said, “Your mother will want to hear this too. Let me call her and put her on speaker.”

That would mean Jack only had to do this once. “Of course.”

“Hello, Jack,” his mother said when she came in the room. “What’s this news I have to hear?”

“I’m dating someone,” Jack said.

“What’s this person like?” Alicia asked.

“He,” Jack said. “What’s he like? He’s smart and funny and likes to take care of people. He bakes a lot, and he graduated from college last year.”

“What does he do?” Bob asked.

“He plays hockey,” Jack said.

“What level?” Bob asked. 

“NHL,” Jack said.

His parents were both silent for a moment, so Jack continued.

“His name is Bitty -- Eric Bittle -- and he was called up to the Aeros last season. We kind of got to know each other over the season through Marty and Bruce Pappadeaux.”

“Jack, are you sure this is something you want to do?”

It was his mother, using what he classified as her gentle voice. It was the voice she used when she didn’t want to upset him, no matter how frustrated or scared or impatient she felt.

“Yes, Maman, I am,” Jack said. “He’s wonderful, Maman. He makes me feel like I’m important because I’m me, not because I play hockey. He seriously didn’t know that you were my parents until tonight. Either of you. And frankly, I think he’s more impressed by Maman.”

“I’m sure that he’s as wonderful as you think he is,” his father said. “But you have to consider what could happen. Not just to your career, but to his.”

“I know, Papa, believe me,” Jack said. “But Bitty wasn’t exactly in the closet at Samwell. That’s where he went to school. We got together after he went back there to see his friends graduate after the Aeros got knocked out, and he came to the first game against the Capitals.”

“He played hockey there?” Alicia asked.

“Yes,” Jack said. “And lived in the hockey Haus, if that means anything to you. But he said at least a couple of guys on the Aeros have clued in that he’s not straight, and they’re okay with it.”

“A couple of guys on his team is different from the whole league,” Bob said. 

“I know,” Jack said. “Believe me, I know. And I’m not out either. Maybe one day we’ll be ready. Just promise me you won’t say anything. I told him we could trust you.”

“Of course not, Jack,” his mother said. “We just want you -- both of you -- to be safe.”

She must have been looking at her computer at the same time, because she said, “Oh, he is cute.”

“Yes, Maman, and I promise that when you meet him, you’ll love him,” Jack said. “You too, Papa. Just trust me?”

“All right, Jack,” Papa said. “We do trust you. But you can’t blame us for worrying. When can we meet him?”

“Are you coming to the games in Vegas still?” Jack asked. “He’ll be there for Game 3. I’m hoping to convince him to stay for Game 4, too.”

“Is that wise?” Bob asked. “Won’t people notice him following your team around?”

“I think he’s bringing another Aeros rookie, just hanging out and bonding,” Jack said. “With the playoffs in Vegas, we’ll be confined to the hotel and rink most of the time. I’m hoping I can slip out to see him for a couple of hours.”

“Well, I’m sure it will be easier to get away for breakfast or lunch with us than with some unnamed friend,” Alicia said. “We’ll make sure to get a suite so we don’t have to go out. Tell him we’re looking forward to meeting him.”

“Yes, Maman, I will,” Jack said.

“Be careful with your heart,” Papa said.

“Ouais, Papa,” Jack said. “I am.”


	7. Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack tells Bitty about his OD and his past with Kent, and Bitty meets the Zimmermanns. And there's some hockey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who looked this over; any mistakes are mine.  
> This chapter does include discussion of Jack's anxiety and overdose and depression following the overdose. If that's something you don't want to read, just start with the second section.

“Kent Parson?” Bitty was looking at him incredulously through the screen. “The one guy you had a relationship with in your past was Kent Parson?”

“Yes,” Jack said.

“The captain of the Aces? Who you’re playing against now?” 

“Yes.”

“Wait, he’s like the best player in the league, after you,” Bitty said, frowning. “That is so not fair.”

“What? Why not?” Jack said.

“Because there’s no way I can ever compare.” Bitty moaned and collapsed on the table in front of his computer.

Jack was pretty sure Bitty was being dramatic for effect. 

“You know I’m not dating you for your hockey skills, right?” Jack said. “I mean, you are incredibly good, but I would like you and be attracted to you no matter what you did.”

Bitty straightened up again.

“I bet I’m a better baker,” he said.

“Pretty sure I can guarantee that,” Jack said.

“Okay,” Bitty said. “Go on.”

“So Kent and I were together when we were playing in the Q,” Jack said. “We were on the same team, we were best friends, and it got physical. But we never really talked about what we were doing -- we were young, we were the best players on the team -- in the league, even -- and nothing could stop us.”

“Okay,” Bitty said. “I think I know what’s coming, but go on.”

“I’ve had anxiety ever since I was a kid,” Jack said. “Maybe playing high-level hockey wasn’t the best thing for it when I was young. Not the hockey part -- being on the ice was where I felt best. But all the rest of it. The expectations, especially with my dad being who he is. The way people would be disappointed in me if I couldn’t make our team win, but if I did, I always could have done better.”

“Oh, sweet pea, were your parents that kind of hockey parents?”

“Actually, no,” Jack said. “They never pushed me to play, never gave me a hard time if I played poorly. But my dad did lay out the path to take to play in the NHL, and I was terrified of falling off of it. And lots of other people didn’t make any secret of what they expected from me -- coaches, other parents, even some of my teammates. Like if we didn’t win, I let them down. Anyway, I started seeing a psychiatrist when I was 16, and they gave me anxiety medicine I could take when I needed it. If one didn’t help, I could take two.”

“I understand,” Bitty said quietly.

“The night before the draft -- the one I was supposed to be in -- I took two, but it didn’t really help. So I took another two,” Jack said. “And I washed them down with a couple of beers. And maybe I took more after that. I don’t remember.”

Jack couldn’t look at Bitty anymore, so he kept his eyes on the keyboard while he continued.

“Kent found me on the bathroom floor in my hotel room. He called 911, he called my parents -- that was when they found out about us -- he let the paramedics in and watched them take me away,” Jack said.

He glanced up and saw Bitty’s eyes brimming with tears. He looked down again.

“I didn’t speak to him for a year after that,” Jack said. “I was in rehab for a while, then I caught on to a team in the KHL, and I played there and entered the draft the next season. Given what happened, I didn’t go first. But the Falconers — Georgia Martin, the AGM — took the time to get to know me, and they took a risk.”

“What happened with Kent?” Bitty asked. “I know he went first in the draft, but what happened with the two of you? He didn’t just abandon you, did he?”

“It was more the other way around,” Jack said. “He called, but I couldn’t talk to him. I couldn’t handle it. He had everything I was supposed to have, everything I thought I lost forever, and after the way we competed when we were juniors … there were times I thought it would have been better if he hadn’t found me. And there were times I thought he shouldn’t have to deal with an albatross like me around his neck. But mostly, it was our relationship was part of that living on the edge, pushing myself beyond what I could take, that led to what happened.”

Jack took a breath.

“I’ve had a lot of therapy since then, and I can see how it was not a healthy situation,” Jack said. “But I can be a real asshole, and I was with Kent. It was a couple of years before we could talk like normal people.”

“Oh, Jack, no,” Bitty said. “I’m not saying you handled things perfectly, but you don’t have to sacrifice your mental health for anyone else’s comfort. You did what you had to do to get better. If this -- “ Bitty waved his hand between his chest and his laptop screen “-- if this gets to be too much for you, you’ll tell me, right? I don’t want this to be bad for you.”

“I don’t think it will be,” Jack said. “I really don’t. I think being afraid is one reason I didn’t date much after that, but I’m not afraid with you.”

“Aww, that might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Bitty said, sniffling. “I mean it, though. I don’t want be the reason you get pushed over the edge.”

“You won’t be,” Jack said. “Like I said, I’ve had a lot of therapy and I still see a therapist regularly. I’ll always have anxiety, but I’m much better than I was, and better at recognizing when things are getting bad before it goes too far.”

“If you say so,” Bitty said. “I trust you.”

“Thanks,” Jack said. “Anyway, I told Kent I was dating someone -- I wanted to get his permission to talk to you about him -- but I didn’t say who. He wants to meet you.”

“Good Lord,” Bitty said. “We met six times in April.”

“But he doesn’t know that,” Jack said. “My parents want to meet you too. I thought maybe breakfast the morning after the game, with my parents. It’ll be easier to get away in the morning.”

“Of course,” Bitty said. “What should I bring for them? And does this mean we won’t get any time alone?”

“Maybe not that day?” Jack said. “Can you stay for Game 4? We could probably meet up that morning too.”

“I probably can, but I don’t know about Ricks,” Bitty said. “I’d really like to spend some time outside of parental supervision.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “You can tell me later. You’ll be at the game tomorrow?”

“Yes, I’ll definitely see you there, even if you don’t see me,” Bitty said. “But I’m meeting Alicia Montgomery! I have to find a way to tell Mama.”

***************************************

When Game 3 started, Jack knew Bitty and Jimmy Rick were in the stands. Much like in Washington D.C., he couldn’t locate them, and didn’t want to be searching too obviously. While he would fulfill his promise to introduce Bits and Parse, that was better left for the end of the series. Parse wouldn’t out them -- Jack was certain of that -- but he wouldn’t put it beyond Parse to use Bitty to needle Jack during the games. It was the kind of player Parson was; he would use anything at his disposal to get under an opponent’s skin.

And Parson was trying everything -- giving Snowy snow showers, implying Mashkov was involved with the Russian mob, mocking Poots when he lost the puck. The closest he came with Jack, though, was to tell him it was just like old times, because if he implied anything about Jack’s sexuality, it could rebound on him.

It was good that Parse was trying so hard to take the Falconers out of their game, Jack knew. It meant the Falconers were winning, even before they scored their first goal, and Parson was doing everything he could to help his team get the upper hand.

Jack did his best to keep his teammates on an even keel, not letting them be goaded into taking unnecessary penalties, skating fast and passing sharply. It worked, with the Falconers getting a 3-2 road win to take the lead in the series.

As soon as the cameras and microphones left the locker room, Jack picked up his phone. Experience had already taught him that there would be a text from Bitty.

As he picked it up, Poots asked, “Who’s the lucky woman?”

“What?” Jack asked.

“Come on, Cap, the way you’ve been looking at your phone lately, there’s got to be a girl somewhere,” Poots said.

“It so happens that my parents are in town and I have permission to meet them for breakfast in the morning,” Jack said, tapping on his text conversation with them. “They were just letting me know where meet.”

He showed the screen, which indeed had a text from his mother on it, to Poots.

“Aww, a boy’s first love is his mother,” Thirdy said. “And you’ve got to admit, Poots, Jack’s mother is something else. If it wasn’t a little creepy, I’d be jealous that she’s his breakfast date.”

“I’ll tell her you said so,” Jack said. “Even better, I’ll tell my dad.”

Thirdy pretended cower, and Guy chipped in with, “Running to daddy now? Can’t defend your mother’s honor on your own?”

Jack shook his head. “Don’t need to,” he said. “She’d eat you all for lunch if she heard you talking like that. And look good doing it.”

Jack put his phone down and hit the showers. Bitty’s text would have to wait.

When he came back into the dressing room, Marty was next to his stall.

“Don’t take it badly,” Marty said. “They mean it affectionately.”

“I know,” Jack said, pulling his clothes out. “Really. But doesn’t anyone realize that I’ve heard my mother objectified by every team I’ve played with or against since I was about 12? I know she’s beautiful -- I’m not blind. But to me, she’s just my mother. She’s the one who started making me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before every game, and always told me I played well, even when I didn’t, and put on stupid prime-time soaps when I couldn’t talk about hockey any more. And who knows what they’d say if they found out about Bitty.”

“You were looking for a text from him,” Marty said. “I knew it!”

“And I’m going to go read it in private,” Jack said, grabbing his phone and walking away.

The text was innocent enough.

_Great game! Ricks was impressed, too. He kept talking about how we should have beaten the Aces. But it’s good to watch this level of hockey. See you in the morning, 8:30, right?_

__

__

__Jack texted back, _Can’t wait._

*************************************

Jack arrived at the Aria at 8:15, just to make sure he got there before Bitty. When he arrived on their floor, he saw his mother waiting at the door, already looking put together for the day. His father was on the couch, reading glasses perched on his nose and the Sun in his hands. The Review-Journal was discarded on the table, next to his father’s closed laptop.

Bob pushed the glasses on top of his head and stood to refill his coffee cup from the carafe on the dining table. 

“Bonjour, Jack,” he said, stopping to pull Jack close and kiss his cheek. “Sleep well?”

“Ouais, Papa,” Jack said. 

“Coffee?”

“Ouais,” Jack said. “One cup.”

“We can get a pot of decaf, too, when we order breakfast,” Alicia said. “We weren’t sure what to get for Eric.”

There was already a platter of pastries, Jack noted, but he doubted Bitty would touch them. Or let anyone else touch them.

“I don’t know for sure either,” Jack said. They’d only had breakfast together the one time, and Bitty had said he was limited by the lack of ingredients and lack of time. “He moved to Houston for conditioning this summer, and I don’t know what kind of nutrition plan they have him on.”

“He’s good,” Papa said. “Fast, soft hands, good stick-handling. Maybe a bit of a death wish, though, going after Mashkov.”

So Bob had at least looked up Bitty’s games against the Falcs. Maybe more.

“It was fine,” Jack said. “Tater didn’t feel any need to retaliate. Came out to dinner with us later and everything.”

When Bob raised his eyebrows, Jack said, “With the whole group. But he likes Bitty. I think he’d adopt him as a little brother if he could.”

The room phone buzzed and Alicia picked it up. When she set it down, she said, “He’s on his way up,” and went to the door.

Jack first saw Bitty over his mother’s shoulder. His boyfriend (he liked to think those words) had a smile pasted on his face and a plastic container held outstretched.

“I’d normally bring pie, but since it’s breakfast, I made muffins,” Bitty said. “I’m Eric Bittle, but most people call me Bitty.”

“Hello,” Alicia said, taking the box. “I’m Alicia and this is Bob.”

Bob stepped forward to shake Bitty’s hand, and then Jack reached out to embrace him.

It should have felt new, Jack thought. This was the second time they’d seen each other in person since they agreed to try to be together, and the first time they met in a falafel shop where they couldn’t hug.

So now he pulled Bitty to his chest and held him there, breathing in the citrus scent of his hair, marvelling at how right it felt to have Bitty in his arms, and have Bitty’s arms holding him just as close. After a moment, he released Bitty and stepped back, taking in the pressed khakis and pink button-down. Bitty looked like a handsome, very well put-together vacationer, Jack decided. He had felt the swell and ripple of muscles under Bitty’s shirt, but they wouldn’t be obvious to a casual observer.

“Maybe I overdressed,” Bitty said, looking at Jack’s soft blue T-shirt and worn-in jeans. Jack knew the jeans fit him like they were made for him (they were) and the sleeves of his shirt stretched around his biceps; he wasn’t above flexing just a little bit, if it could keep that look on Bitty’s face a second longer.

“No,” Jack said. “You look great.”

Bob cleared his throat behind Jack.

“Do you want something to drink, Bitty?” Bob said. “There’s coffee on the table, and juice in the fridge.”

“Oh, thanks, Ba -- Mr. -- Jack’s dad.” Bitty’s face blushed deeper pink than his shirt. Jack spared a sympathetic thought for Bitty, who was clearly mortified, but watched his parents, who were just as clearly charmed. 

“Bob’s fine, son,” his dad said, and if he was calling Bitty “son,” they were home free.

“Let me put these out,” Alicia said, bringing the muffins to the table. “They smell delicious. And then we can order breakfast.”

Jack was right: No one touched the hotel pastries. The four of them put a significant dent in the container of muffins Bitty brought while they waited for breakfast to come up, and Bitty carried the conversation, only fan-boying a little over his mother, and hanging on his father’s words of advice.

His parents’ interrogation of Bitty was gentle, but thorough. Listening to them draw Bitty out, Jack learned how good of a figure skater had been (“I won the Southern Junior Regionals in 2010, and I was really hoping to make nationals as a junior before I started the senior circuit.”) Then the family moved and Bitty stopped skating and took up hockey, despite collapsing on the ice every time anyone so much as bumped him. Bitty kind of glossed over why he stopped figure skating-- it seemed like he was at a level where moving to to get better coaching would be reasonable -- and why he was so worried about being checked, but Jack wasn’t going to push. Especially not in front of his parents.

“So wait just a minute, son,” Bob said to Bitty. “You didn’t start playing hockey until seven years ago? And you’re on an NHL roster? Do you know how unlikely that is?”

“I _am_ a good skater, sir,” Bitty said. “And I haven’t made the roster for next season yet.”

“You will,” Jack said.

“How do you find time to bake so much?” Alicia asked. “The muffins are delicious.”

Bitty shrugged.

“Sometimes pies just appear around me,” Bitty said. “Seriously, it relaxes me, to be doing something productive with my hands. I learned from my MooMaw when I was too small to be left alone while my parents worked, and it takes me back to when everything seemed simple.”

“I want to know when you’re getting you’re conditioning done,” Jack said.

“This is a rest day. After this, I’m supposed to meet Ricks at the pool at 11,” Bitty said. “He’s leaving tomorrow morning, but if it’s okay, I’ll stay for the next game. I can do what I need to in the hotel gym.”

“You’re sure?” Jack said.

“Well I’m sure as heck not running outside in that heat, now am I?”

When they had finished eating, Alicia turned serious.

“I hope you know how happy we are for you boys,” she said. “And you’re both adults and can do what you want. But we are concerned that this seems awfully fast. We just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

“Maman --”

“Jack, you said we’d love Bitty and we do,” Bob said. “And Bitty, I can tell how happy Jack is around you. We don’t want either of you to get hurt.”

“Mr. Zimmermann -- Bob -- you have to know we don’t want that either,” Bitty said. “I know I’m younger than Jack, but we both know ourselves well enough to know what we want. You don’t have any reason to trust me -- I know that -- but maybe you could trust Jack?”


	8. Part 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty goes back to Houston, the Stanley Cup FInal ends, Jack realizes what's important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it for for this fic! I left the door open for more, maybe, but I'm not sure. I think I left Jack in a good place.  
> There is a NSFW section in the second part; if you don't want to read it, stop at "They didn't really talk at all," and start again at "There was no time for even a short nap today."

Bitty left in plenty of time to be in his room at 10:45, just in case Ricks knocked on his door before heading to the pool. 

Jack was back at his hotel and changing to workout gear when Bitty texted the first time.

_We were going to meet by the pool but there are 6 of them. And a lazy river. I don’t know how I’m going to find him._

A few minutes later, as Jack headed to the gym, Bitty texted again.

_Nvm. Found him._

There was a picture of Ricks, ensconced in a seat with a shade, sipping on a pina colada and looking away from Bitty.

Jack was almost jealous that Bitty was spending the day lounging around, and not with him. Almost. If he was honest, he was glad his team was still playing hockey, that he still had to keep to his routines, that there will still games to prepare for. There would be time to lounge after the cup was awarded.

Jack muted his notifications, turned on his music and cranked up the treadmill.

An hour later, he checked his phone as he left the gym.

_OMG Jack! Ricks knows!_

Jack’s stomach plummeted to somewhere below his waistband, but he kept reading the series of texts that had arrived while he was blissfully disconnected.

_Not about you, or us_

_About me_

_Or he thinks he knows. He knocked on my door this morning and got suspicious when I didn’t answer. He thinks I went out and hooked up after we got back last night_

_He’s coming back from the bar. More later._

Jack made it back to his room and showered before Bitty texted again.

_Ok, he got pulled into a water volleyball game with a bunch of girls. I told him I’d watch his stuff while I enjoy my drink_

There was a selfie of Bitty, shirtless, under an umbrella with a drink that had a matching umbrella. Jack felt another twist in his gut, but this one had nothing to do with fear. 

To take his mind off the way Bitty’s skin was practically glowing, Jack considered the drink in Bitty’s hand. Jack was pretty sure the color of the drink wasn’t found in nature, and he shuddered to think of the amount of sugar it must contain, let alone the alcohol.

_What are you drinking?_

There was a pause before Bitty’s text appeared.

_It’s a purple margarita. Pretty, isn’t it?_

_Pretty strong, I bet,_ Jack wrote. _You’re out in the sun getting dehydrated. Drink water too. Be careful._

 _Yes dad,_ Bitty replied. _I got grilled by my boyfriend’s parents today, tho, so I think I deserve it. Besides, it’s my off-season and my rest day. Just because you’re still in playoffs doesn’t mean I have to suffer_

Jack was considering how to respond -- Bitty was an adult, and in their (admittedly limited) time together, Jack had never known him to go overboard -- when he saw Bitty was typing again.

_What is it with giant hockey players trying to protect me from myself, anyway? Ricks just said I didn’t have to tell him anything I didn’t want to, but if I wanted to go hook up with someone, I could always let him know where I am, just in case. Because he clearly doesn’t think I’m hooking up with some cute little thing in a skirt._

Jack squashed the niggling feeling of jealousy that sprung up when he thought about Bitty spending the day with Ricks, who clearly felt close enough to try to look out for Bitty.

 _Good for Ricks,_ Jack said. _Teammates have each other’s backs._

Bitty was typing again.

_Wonder what he would say if he knew I was meeting the parents instead of having the time of my life with some fling who fits into the ‘What happens in Vegas’ category? At least tomorrow we can act like that_

Jack wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he had a team meeting to get to.

 _We can do whatever you want tomorrow,_ Jack wrote. _Talk tonight?_

 _Absolutely,_ Bitty said.

If he saved the selfie Bitty sent, well, Jack wouldn’t have tell anyone.

*********************************

The next morning, Jack tried not to look over his shoulder as he approached Bitty’s door. He was sure he was on camera -- probably on a few cameras -- out here in the hallway, but Vegas hotel security would never tell. He was more worried about Jimmy Rick emerging from his room on the way to the airport.

He made it to Bitty’s room without encountering anyone, and Bitty opened the door at the first tap and all but pulled Jack over the threshold.

Breakfast was already on the table in the corner of the room. Bitty clearly had a very good idea of Jack’s meal plan.

“I didn’t want to waste time on ordering after you were here,” Bitty said. “We should probably eat right away -- eggs don’t improve with sitting. But then I have plans for you.”

Jack sat at the table, taking in Bitty in his tiny shorts and a tank top that showed off just how muscled he was.

He thought about what he planned to say: how they should take the time to understand what each one wanted and needed; how they didn’t need to be in a hurry to advance the physical side of their relationship; how Jack knew he’d laid a lot on Bitty’s shoulders the last few days, what with Parse and his parents, and he understood if Bitty needed time to process everything or ask questions or anything like that. 

But what he wanted to do was touch Bitty, to run his hands up his arms -- now a shade deeper tan than they had been yesterday morning -- across his shoulders and down his back. He wanted to pull the tank top off over Bitty’s head, and take off his own shirt and feel the skin of Bitty’s chest against his. He wanted to cup Bitty’s round backside in his hands, to pluck those ridiculous shorts off …

What he did was put his napkin in his lap and say, “I have a game tonight.”

“I know that, sweet pea,” Bitty said. “When I said I had plans, I didn’t mean anything that’s going to tire you out too much.”

“And we don’t have to move too fast,” Jack said. “I don’t want to push you into anything, or make you feel like you have to --”

“Hush, Jack,” Bitty said. “Of course we’ll decide together what to do and how fast to go. But you’re not pushing me at all. When I saw you yesterday, I wanted to climb you like a tree, as you very well know. I saw you flexing.”

“Still,” Jack said, “I guess it’s been kind of a long time for me, and I really want to take you to bed, but I’m a little nervous.”

“Even after Washington?” Bitty said. “Let’s finish eating and then we can curl up on that bed and see where that takes us.”

Jack was a little relieved -- and a little disappointed -- that Bitty took his own shirt off, but when Bitty suggested Jack take off his own polo shirt and jeans to get comfortable, he eagerly complied.

They didn’t really talk at all. As soon as Jack climbed into the bed, Bitty pulled him into a sweet, lingering kiss, and then any thought of talking fled from his mind.

When Bitty started moving down Jack’s body like he was going to suck him off again, Jack put his hands on his shoulders to stop him.

“Wait,” he said. “I want to go down on you.”

“You don’t have to,” Bitty said.

“I know,” Jack said.

But Bitty’s skin tasted and smelled delicious, and he wanted to follow that scent to the center of Bitty’s body, where it was strongest, and he wanted to hold him in his mouth and feel his heaviness and taste the salt and hear the sounds that Bitty made.

Jack had the privilege of pulling the tiny blue shorts -- which, frankly, did nothing to hide Bitty’s state of arousal -- from around Bitty’s hips and pulled them down his legs. He ran his nose up Bitty’s inner thigh, pausing to suck a small bruise right where Bitty’s thigh met his groin. It was a secret mark, one that no one else need ever know about.

Bitty was already making small sounds in the back of his throat by the time Jack got his mouth properly around Bitty. He hadn’t been exaggerating before -- it had been a long time -- but with the way Bitty moved and whimpered and sighed and moaned, Jack had no difficulty figuring out what was working.

When it was over, Jack slid up the bed and held Bitty in his arms as he recovered. Then Jack started rocking his own erection against Bitty, pushing into the muscles that girded his hips, until Jack, too, was done.

There was no time for even a short nap today. Morning skate started in less than an hour. Jack went to the bathroom to soak a cloth in warm water, came back and wiped Bitty down, then kissed his forehead and said, “Get some sleep. But don’t forget to hit the gym later. I know yesterday was your rest day.”

***********************************

The Falconers won that night.

Jack had arrived for morning skate feeling relaxed and confident, and that feeling carried him through the whole day.

He had Bitty’s selfie on his phone, along with another photo that Bitty sent later. In the picture, Bitty was standing at the edge of the pool, swim trunks wet, skin glistening with water. He was twisted around to look at the photographer, so his ass and his smile both were in the frame, and the sun was making his hair spark gold.

The text that came with it said, _Ricks took this and said to send it to whoever I keep texting. I told him Mama would like it._

But after the game, after reading Bitty’s congratulatory text, Jack flew back to Providence with the team. Bitty would head back to Houston in the morning, back to daily workouts and furnishing his new apartment and charity and community obligations. Jack tried to tell him the Aeros wouldn’t have him do those if they didn’t expect him to be on the ice to open the season, but Bitty refused to accept that a spot on the team was his to lose. He seemed to think that acknowledging that as fact would jinx it.

Jack was as superstitious as the next hockey player -- well, almost -- but he also believed that players should have a realistic idea of their own strengths and weaknesses, relative to their teammates and other players in the league. How else would they improve? But that was probably a discussion for a few months from now, when Bitty called him to share the news that he was on the roster.

The next two games -- one in Providence and in Las Vegas -- sucked. There was no other way to describe them. Jack tried and tried to sink one in Providence and caught iron twice, but never got a goal, and Aces won 2-1 to stay alive.

Back in Vegas, without Bitty this time, Jack tried to find his stride and again failed. The whole team was off, missing passes, blocking Snowy’s view instead of the puck, taking stupid penalties. The 4-0 score was an embarrassment, and even worse, it meant Game 7. And again, Bitty would not be there.

“You’ll do fine,” Bitty told him on the phone that morning. “Shitty and Lardo will be at the game.”

That helped, but they weren’t Bitty.

“I’m not your personal good luck charm,” Bitty said. “If I had a choice, we’d win every game we play against you. That’s not good luck for you.”

Okay, that didn’t really help at all.

“Win or lose, you’re still coming to visit next week, right?” Bitty said. “You’re staying at least a week, and I’m teaching you to make a pie. And in August, I’ll come up to Canada for a week. Even if I have to bring a jacket. In August.”

“I think the blueberries will be in season then,” Jack said. 

“Not until then?” Bitty said. “We’ve had them for a month already.”

When Jack skated out for warm ups, he wanted to win the game maybe more than he had wanted to win any game of his career. If the Falconers won, it would be a second cup for the team and for him. He’d be even with Parse instead of down by two, which maybe shouldn’t matter, but it still did.

Even with that incentive, Jack knew that it would be fine -- he would be fine -- if they lost. They’d had a good season, and were one of the last teams playing. No one could say they choked or tanked or anything else. Going to Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final, well, a lucky bounce could decide it, for one team or the other, and Jack wasn’t about to let a lucky bounce for the Aces ruin his summer.

So when he saw the sign Shitty brought back -- once again demanding, “Yo, marry me Jack Zimmermann” -- it made him think of Bitty and laugh. Marty skated up next to him.

“You’re in a good mood,” Marty said. “Your boy here?”

“No,” Jack said. “I know he’s watching, but people would notice if he followed me around too much. But I’m flying to Houston as soon as we’re done with things up here.”

“Good for you, Cap,” Marty said. “Maybe Gabby and I will go see Pops and Jess. Gabby wants to meet him.”

“I thought she already knew Pops.”

“Idiot,” Marty said. “You know what I mean.”

When the game ended with the Falconers clinging to a one-goal lead, it felt every bit as good as Jack expected. He made a point of looking right into a camera when he lifted the Stanley Cup over his head, lowered it to his mouth and kissed it.

He wished Bitty was there so he could kiss him too, but neither one of them were ready for that.

Maybe next time, Jack thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://justlookfrightened.tumblr.com)!


End file.
